


To my younger self

by grapehyasynth



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, POV Patrick Brewer, Self Compassion, Self-angst?, Therapy, but like, their relationship is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27982716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: David runs a finger over the photo and Patrick feels his heart clench, the emotional rawness of earlier feeling close to the surface again. “So why did you need this for therapy?”“I had to hold it, and look at it, look at my younger self, and say - say sorry.” He clears his throat. “Not as an apology, but in - sympathy. Or empathy, I guess. Tell him I’m sorry for the bad days and the challenges ahead and everything he’d gone through or would still go through.”~~~An exercise from Patrick's therapist hits both him and David pretty hard.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 66
Kudos: 218





	To my younger self

**Author's Note:**

> This fic touches broadly on the trauma of being human but doesn't mention anything specific; if you think I should warn about anything in tags or here, lmn!

David takes one look at Patrick when he ambles into their kitchen after shucking his shoes and coat and bag in the hall and says, “Well, don’t you look like you’ve just been through an emotional trash compactor.” 

“Just what every husband wants to hear,” he chuckles, but he still kisses David in greeting. “Do I smell dinner?” 

“Mhm.” David prods at the unidentified substance in their biggest pot; some kind of stew or chili, Patrick hopes. “Good therapy session?” 

Patrick opens his mouth to respond before pausing. He’s been seeing Michael twice monthly for therapy for almost a year now, and he still doesn’t know what a _good_ session is. “Yes,” he finally answers, slowly, “if crying a lot is good.” 

David’s hands are on Patrick’s shoulders almost immediately, the wooden spoon abandoned. “Um, crying a lot _can_ be good, if one is at a Mariah concert or one’s own wedding. Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently. “I mean, I know that’s what therapy is for, and you don’t have to share everything with me-” 

Patrick tilts his head so he can rub his cheek on David’s hand. “I kind of do, though. Marital vows and all that.” 

“Mkay, I’m pretty sure the song didn’t say anything about sharing your every waking thought with me. Can you _imagine_? You’d divorce me within a day if I told you every single thing _I_ think or every problem _I_ have.” 

“Oh, as opposed to all the restraint you currently exhibit?” Patrick asks innocently, then has to catch David’s wrists as they threaten to fly off his shoulders in affront. “I’m kidding. And divorce is still not in the cards for me.” 

“Well, isn’t that a comfort,” David grumbles, but he shifts closer so that his arms loop around Patrick’s neck. 

“It’s not anything specific, anyway,” Patrick says, going back to the question David has been kindly letting him pussyfoot around. “Michael had me do this exercise where I held a photo of myself when I was younger-” 

“Ooh!” David gasps. “I want to see!” 

Patrick laughs; he’d anticipated this when he’d asked his mom to mail some photos recently. He’s got most of them in a box upstairs and plans to introduce them into David’s life slowly, like an IV drip of baby Patrick, but for now he withdraws from his back pocket the small picture he’d used in therapy. 

David takes the picture with careful fingertips and scrunches his whole face up in overwhelmed delight. “Oh my goodness, how old are you here, like, two?” 

“Seven,” Patrick grins; he’s used to David having absolutely no grasp of children’s ages. “This was my school photo that year.” 

“Oh good, so that tacky backdrop wasn’t your choice.” David runs a finger over little Patrick’s cheek and Patrick feels his heart clench, the emotional rawness of earlier feeling close to the surface again. “So why did you need this for therapy?” 

“I had to hold it, and look at it, look at my younger self, and say - say sorry.” He clears his throat. “Not as an apology, but in - sympathy. Or empathy, I guess. Tell him I’m sorry for the bad days and the challenges ahead and everything he’d gone through or would still go through.” 

David’s brow furrows, and it takes him longer to look up from the photo this time. “And...how did that make you feel?” 

They both laugh at that, and David rolls his eyes in self-mocking, but Patrick tucks himself against David’s side so they can both look down at the photo. 

“It hit me right in the gut,” he admits quietly. “I think I had a happy childhood, I really do, but it - I don’t know. I had a response I didn’t expect. Devastated, and regretful, and tired, and scared for that little guy. Even knowing how it worked out for him in the end,” he adds, squeezing David around the middle. 

David hugs him then, one of the all-encompassing embraces that force a shuddering exhale from Patrick as he finally finds himself steadied, safe. 

“I think we should skip straight to dessert,” David mumbles into his hair. “It’s what baby Patrick would want.” 

Patrick laughs, and he knows one of them should be the adult, but he really can’t argue with that logic. 

They leave the conversation there, and David doesn’t bring it up again, so Patrick assumes it’s forgotten - or, well, not forgotten, but tucked into the fabric of their relationship, woven in, incorporated, acknowledged. It’s not until he wakes up alone a few nights later that he realizes David might’ve gotten snagged on it. 

He lays awake in the dark for a while, waiting for David to come back to bed, but eventually he gets impatient. It’s not that he _can’t_ sleep alone, but this bed is big, and he can’t be expected to get comfortable when the mattress isn’t dipping slightly from David’s presence. 

He finds him in the ensuite, perched on the closed toilet, holding his phone and crying.

Patrick gets one look at the screen and the curly-haired, serious-faced little David pictured there, and he understands. 

He drops to his knees onto the tile and wraps himself around David from the side. 

“I didn’t know,” David sobs, his whole body shaking with it. “I didn’t know it would - it would feel like this.” 

Patrick wonders if he should’ve been more explicit about how utterly devastated he’d felt doing the exercise during therapy, if he shouldn’t have let them both brush it off. 

“I know he’s okay,” David hiccups, “and I know _I’m_ okay, but there’s - there’s so much in between - and he’s going to be so - so -” 

Patrick knows the word, or words, David is reaching for, has heard enough of the stories to understand. He wants to say _I know, I know_ , but this is David’s time to talk. 

“I wish I could hug him. And you _know_ how I feel about hugging children,” David says, shooting Patrick a surprisingly steady look given the situation, and Patrick has to hide a smile against David’s ribcage. “I just - I didn’t realize I was - I didn’t realize this was - in me.” 

Patrick nods against him. He knows their childhoods were materially worlds apart, but he thinks he might’ve been the luckier of the two, in the ways that matter. And still, there were hurts and scars, trauma that even everyone trying their best couldn’t prevent, trauma that comes from being human. 

He holds David until David’s cried himself dry, and then a little longer, and then all through the night, shielding the specters of their younger selves between them. 

About a week after his moving session with Michael, Patrick comes home from the store to find two newly framed photos on the mantle. 

“What’s this?” he asks David, awed, as he looks at a seven-year-old Patrick Brewer placed opposite a young David Rose. (David has refused to specify how old he is in the photo because it has the date printed in blocky orange numbers in the corner, and “my husband, unfortunately, can do math.”) 

David’s mouth twists nervously as he joins Patrick by the fireplace. “I thought maybe we could use the reminder,” he says, watching Patrick for a reaction. “A reminder that things worked out okay, for them.” 

Patrick’s fingers tremble a little as he unnecessarily adjusts the photos’ alignment. When he looks at David, he doesn’t care if David can see the unshed tears in his eyes. “You’re the bravest man I know, David.” 

“Well, no, because the bravest man you know is that guy who came into the store the other day, with that haircut?” David snorts, but he still gathers Patrick in his arms, swaying him a little on the spot. “But, um. Thank you.” 

And Patrick knows it’s not just for the compliment. “Really, you should thank my therapist.” 

“Oh, I do,” David breathes. “I might send him a box of those Mennonite fudge squares.” 

They’re silent for a moment, before Patrick dares to ask, “Is it bad to wish that things had been easier on us? I mean, I’m glad we’ve ended up here, and if changing the past would mean we didn’t get to have _this_ -” 

“Oh, god no, of course we should wish things were easier,” David huffs. “People are always like _I wouldn’t change it for the world_ which I think is bullshit; how can we be expected to make that calculation, of what we have against what we had to go through? But that doesn’t mean -- we’d still -- hmm.” He cuts himself off with a funny look. 

“David,” Patrick gasps, leaning back so he can properly humiliate his husband with the full force of his grin. “Were you about to say that you think we’d have ended up here anyway? Like we were meant to be here?” 

“I blame the romcoms,” David says defensively. 

Patrick just hums contentedly and snuggles his face into the space under David’s chin. 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't fully done this exercise myself but heard it mentioned in a podcast and felt really emotionally affected by it.


End file.
